The Past, The Present, and The Future Tom Hardy
by RRatedauthor
Summary: By request... Tom, in his own words.
1. Chapter 1

By Request...

**The Past, The Present, and "The Future" Tom Hardy – An autobiography**

**Introduction (written by Jeff Hardy)**

When I lost my Tommy, I was surprised by the number of people who asked me if I would ever consider writing his life story. I always, and still do, believe that I could never do it any justice simply because we weren't a part of each others lives for the majority of it.

What I didn't count on was Tommy doing just that. While going through Tommy's personal papers, I found the key to a storage unit. Inside it was this. This it Tommy is his own words. Nothing has been changed, not even his Canadian spellings. I had the good fortune to know him as a brother, a lover, and a husband and even I learned a few things.

I hope you do too.

**Chapter One – The Early Years**

For anyone who has ever read an autobiography, this is where we get the basics out of the way. I was born on such-and-such a day, at such-and-such a time, et cetera. Unfortunately, I don't know a lot of that myself.

Before you start assuming that I've taken a few too many head shots, let me explain. I was born in North Carolina on March 25, 1972 to Gilbert and Ruby Hardy. Other than that, It's all a mystery. Hell, I can't even tell you what name I was born with.

At ten days old, Teresa and Robert Baker, a very nice Canadian couple, adopted me and I was given the Christian names Andrew Thomas. Like a lot of things in my early life, I think my names were a compromise. My mom always called me 'Andy' or "Andrew' unless she was pissed at me. To my Dad, I was 'Tom' or "Thomas' unless he was angry. That's when I got slapped across the face by whatever the old man could get his hands on. I developed a real pain tolerance by the time I started school, let me tell you.

Other than being my Dad's personal punching bad, I had a pretty normal early childhood, although I wasn't what anyone would call normal. My IQ at age 5 was certified at 141, which was considered genius. About that time, I also discovered game shows. By the time I started Kindergarten, I could solve the puzzles on Wheel Of Fortune faster than the contestants. The Price is Right honed my math skills to the point where I was doing grade 4 multiplication and division in grade ½. (I was in grade one for all of one month before being promoted to grade 2.) According to my report cards, my principal wanted me to do the same for grades ¾ and 5/6. That would've meant graduating grade school at ten, high school at fourteen, and University before I was legally able to drink. (That being 19 in Canada.) Not surprising, my mother shot that idea down real fast.

As a result, and I'm almost ashamed to admit this, I never learned to write longhand. That was part of the grade one curriculum I skipped over. What's even funnier is I can write all the upper-case letters... only because that was taught in grade 3.

That might beg the question... if I can't write, how do I sign my cheques? Remind me to tell you that story some time.

Anyway, despite the fact that I was an only child; at least as far as I had no Baker siblings, I didn't make a lot of friends growing up. Honestly, people around town will say that I didn't try, but my answer is I didn't care. I would have more fun reading in my bedroom. Ironically, the first books I owned were volumes of "The Hardy Boys" mysteries.

Between books, game shows, and youth bowling, that was my social life until age 12... when my world fell apart. Not having much of a support system to begin with, I wasn't able to cope. People ask how I survived my teenage years. My reply: luck.

Anyway, age 12. My parents separated. The divorce finalized the day before I started high school. They got back together a few years later. Yeah, after the floozie my Dad left my mom for left him for another woman. If you want to laugh, go ahead. I found it kind of funny when I heard about it many years later.

By this point, I was long gone. The moment I got accepted to Harvard School of Business, I packed my shit and left Canada for good. I didn't go back until after my Dad dropped dead of a heart attack. I don't know if my mom every forgave me for that. I wish I'd asked her before she left way too soon herself.

It was at Harvard where I started getting comfortable in my skin. Being smart, being a loner, and everything else that got me tormented during my high school days was actually normal for a change. That, and wrestling. I got into it right after 'Mania III. Back when squash matches were the norm. (Anyone else remember Scott Casey and Iron Mike Sharpe?) A match between recognizable names was a thing to remember.

November 12, 1987. Strike Force defeats the Hart Foundation to win the WWF tag-team titles. The day I knew I was hooked and the day I also knew that was I wanted to do.

But back to Uni. Back to a time before the Monday Night Wars, monthly pay-per-views, and PG. Every three months (give or take), a group of us would scrape together some cash and either hit a local restaurant, or when one of us actually had his own place, to watch Wrestlemania, or one of the other 'big four'. Afterwards, depending upon if any alcohol had been consumed, we'd fuck around and imitate what we'd just seen. I don't know how many coffee tables we destroyed over the years, but eventually it became part of the budget. That, and bail money, but that's for later on.

Post-grad, we went our separate ways. Last I heard, a couple of them were trying their luck in TNA. Wrestling, as a profession, would take the back burner for a couple of years while I pretended to be an adult. I got a job, bought my first house, and almost got married.

It was the summer of 1996 when everything changed. Got piledriven on its head, if you will. By that, I mean it was time for me to stop doing what everyone else said I should do. I was time to start living my life and my life was to become a professional wrestler.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two – How to Succeed in Wrestling Without Really Trying

I started training in January of 1997. I'd sorta let myself go in the years since I'd graduated from University and I figured that if I was going to go shirtless in front of thousands of people (I hoped!), I'd need to shed those extra thirty pounds.

It wasn't as hard as you'd think. Living in L.A. back then, the only thing there was more of than gyms was sand. Between daily workouts and laying off the pizza, potato chips, and trips to the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, I shed most of the extra weight in three short months.

April of that same year, I took the next step and joined a wrestling school. Better than that, the school had connections to the local promotion. You know the old joke about there being two types of people in Los Angeles... actors, and waiters who want to be actors? Well, I was a waiter who wanted to be a wrestler. I guess you could say it was basically the same thing, but I'm not going to argue semantics.

Mornings: Muscle Beach. Afternoons: wrestling school. Evenings, I waited tables and occasionally bounced. Gotta pay the bills somehow.

It was tiring... fuck that, it bone-numbingly exhausting. I can't tell you how many times I was tempted to go back to my cushy office job, but I stuck to it like a mosquito on flypaper.

That summer, things started happening. Y'know, the school was small enough that news traveled fast, especially when it involved possible advancement. Jack Rockland ran the small L.A.-based promotion and, at the time, was seen as our ticket to the big leagues. He came to the school every couple of months to check us out and occasionally one of the 'veterans' would get a private meeting with him, but that was rare. Even more seldom did we hear of guys actually getting a call-up. That was enough for a lot of the people I started with to give up after a few short months. In fact, of the fifteen guys I started my training with, there were less than half that remained three months into it.

It was July 6th, as I recall. We'd all been given a couple of days off for the holiday. Even though I don't consider myself an American, I was happy for the break. As soon as I walked into the gym, I heard whispers of 'Rockland's here'. I ignored it. I'd heard it all before and didn't consider myself anywhere close to being ready. I continued to change, ignoring most of the guys who were already starting to get that panicked look in their eyes. Sparring was gonna be fun, I felt sure of that. While I was tying my shoes, Tico, one of the assistant trainers, stuck his head through the door.

"Baker, have you got a minute? The boss wants a word in his office."

My mind went in ten different directions. Was I behind on my fees? Worse than that, had a cheque bounced?

"Just tyin' my shoes." Trying to sound cool was I, but I failed based on the snickers I heard.

I followed Tico to the office. I tried to ask what was up, but either he didn't know or he was told not to tell me. "I'm just the messenger." That was all I could get out of him.

I swallowed loudly. At the office door, I waited outside while the messenger informed those within of my arrival. That was the longest thirty seconds I ever had to wait. Eventually, Tico returned.

"They're ready for you. Good luck."

I can honestly say I hadn't been this nervous since my first day of pre-school. I took a deep, calming breath and entered.

"Hey, Andrew," My trainer insisted on calling me that, despite both my preferences and the bad memories it drug up. "I'm sorry to spring this on you at such short notice, but it seemed like a better idea to do this now than after you got all sweated up."

"No problem. What's up?"

"I'm sure you know Jack Rockland. He runs the local promotion."

I nodded, hoping that my head would stop before I looked like a Jack-in-the-box on 'roids.

"Anyway, I'll let him explain what's goin' on."

Again, I nodded.

"Paulie tells me you've worked your ass off for the past three months. I just lost a guy to injury and I need someone to fill. Are you interested?"

Was I interested? In a word, fuck yeah! But I couldn't seem too eager.

"How many nights?"

Paulie gave me a real dirty look. Rockland either didn't notice it or, if he did, he ignored it.

"Right now, it's just the one show. Consider it a tryout if you like."

I nodded for a third time. "Where and when?"

"Tomorrow night. Eight o'clock. Moose Lodge over on Jefferson."

"I'll be there."

"Lookin' forward to it, 'speck if you're as good as Paulie says y'are."

"I'll try not to make a liar out of him. Is that all?"

Paulie nodded. I took that to mean yes and I quickly returned to the gym. I shrugged off all the questions, figuring that they'd eventually find out one way or another. Besides, the butterflies were already starting to fill my stomach and the match was still 36 hours away.

It was business as usual for the rest of day. I finished school, and went to my job. I tried to explain to my supervisor that I needed the next evening off for a personal emergency. He wasn't buying it, but what could he do. I wasn't gonna show up, and if he wanted to fire me, I could've cared less to begin with. It wasn't like I really needed the job. Okay, I did need the job, but that's beside the point.

The next 24 hours were a blur. I do remember spending what few dollars I had in my bank account on a new pair of wrestling boots. I still have that first pair stashed away somewhere. I arrived at the arena about an hour and a half before the show and changed into my gear behind a dumpster. I'd heard rumors that the new guy was sometimes made to change in a corridor and I didn't own a car. Back then, I was secure enough in my manhood to allow a stray cat or two see me naked but that was it.

After all that, I walked into the arena (or the local high school gym in this case) and nobody seems to even notice that I'm there. About the same time I wonder if I got either the day or the place wrong, I finally see Rockland. He's talking to some guy in a suit and sunglasses and then, to my relief, beckons me over.

"Glad you made it, Baker." He says

"I was starting to wonder myself." I replied, unable to help noticing that Shades is giving me a once-over.

"This is John Hennigan. He'll be working with you tonight."

At least now Shades had a name.

"Have a good match out there. You two are on first."

In my career, I have learned that jerking the curtain can have it's advantages, especially when it's your first match. There is very little time to get nervous. So Rockland walks away and Hennigan, who I later learn is rocking a Johnny Cage from the Mortal Kombat movie gimmick, just stares at me.

"I can't see what Rockland sees in ya. You don't look like much."

"Appearances can be deceiving." I can't help wondering if this guy is trying to get under my skin.

Hennigan shrugs. "What can you do?"

"You're the pro. You tell me what you want to do." As long as the answer didn't involve a dildo shoved up my ass, I was willing to go along with pretty much however he wanted the match to go.

"Okay." He proceeds to give me a ten-minute summary of Mortal Kombat: the movie, despite the fact I'd seen the film so many times I could recite it by memory. I didn't want to piss him off too much, if our paths crossed somewhere down the road.

"...then I figure we'll just improv the rest."

"But you're goin' over, right?"

"Obviously." Hennigan lowered his shades and gave me a 'that was a dumb question' look.

"Just checking. I'm only here for the night, so it seems logical."

"I'll see you in the ring." I'm not sure if it was part of his gimmick, or if he was a genuine asshole, but he just walks off.

Standing there all alone for the next 45 minutes was not going to help the butterfly colony that was threatening to explode in my gut, so I decided to just walk around and maybe figure out exactly what the fuck I had just gotten myself into.

"Yo, Hennigan, we need you to cut a promo before your match." One of the backstage crew chased after him.

"You gotta be kiddin' me?" Hennigan shouted back. "It ain't bad enough that I gotta jerk the curtain with a one-night stand, but I actually gotta pander to the fans. What next?"

Let me put you over... I thought and immediately started to chuckle. Hennigan heard me, which added more ire to his already ire-filled self.

"What's so funny, noob?" Hennigan got back into my face. Looking back, if it wasn't for my nerves, I could've put him in his place. Hell, I was older than him, taller than him, and had a few more pounds on him. But I've always considered myself a company guy and if that mean taking a verbal ass-whipping, so be it.

"Dude, I know you think you're all that and a bag of Doritos, but you gotta let it slide, man. I would kill to be given time to cut a promo."

"It's your first, and only, fuckin' night here. Just why in the blue hell would anyone let you talk, much less pay you to?" Hennigan was getting right up in my grill and I must say, it was doing wonders for killing the butterflies.

"True, but who knows what will happen in the future. You could get the call tomorrow. Do you really want to remembered here as an arrogant pretty-boy who doesn't know when to swallow his pride?"

Hennigan actually seemed to think this over. Was he buying what I was selling?

"Sometimes you just gotta kiss some ass and hoped they wiped." Thank God dinner was hours ago.

I still wasn't sure if Hennigan believed me, but at least he smiled. "For a rookie, you make a lot of sense."

"That's what they tell me. If you hate promos that much, I can always cut you off at the knees. If they don't like it, what are they gonna do? Fire me?"

That my friends was the start of my wrestling career. I did interrupt Johnny Cage and I even through a few Shang Tsung lines back at him. Other than that, it was all by the script. He kicked my ass so bad, I wasn't sure if I'd ever get the boot prints off.

I only worked with him that one night. He moved on to another territory and that was the last I saw of him until many years later when we were both working for Vince. I always meant to ask him if he remembered our first match together. I know I sure did.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Despite being pummelled from pillar to post, and taking more bumps than a Formula-One test driver, I was on a high. Even after being hit with a "Flawless Victory" (which looked and felt exactly like "Starship Pain"), my endorphins were off the chart.

Unfortunately, that would also be my last match for six months, and that had nothing to do with the $50 paycheque. It did have everything to do with me being stupid.

There are two expressions in this business: "You're only as good as your last match" and less common, "You're only as strong as your last move." I guess that was their way of saying "Concentrate". I found that out the hard way the next day.

One of the first things you get pounded into your skull is when you take a back bump, do **NOT** brace with your hands. I guess old Tommy was still thinking about the night before. The first set of moves... actually the first move, I braced wrong and snapped my forearm in two.

I'm not sure which was worse. The pain from the injury, having to work at a call centre for four months while the bone knitted itself back together, or the fact that my right arm was now an inch shorter than the left. Whaddaya gonna do, eh? It ain't pro wrestling until someone breaks a bone.

While I'm on the shelf, Rockland sells the promotion to the group that would become Xtreme Pro Wrestling. Nobody thinks to tell me until two days before I was scheduled to start training again. Talk about having the curtain jerked from behind you! That was the point that life in the City of Angels was turning into Hell on Earth. The moment my temp contract with the call centre expired, I packed my shit and moved east. Little did I know that I'd be back in L.A. before the end of the decade.

For most people, moving to New York would be culture shock. For me, it was a simple case of adaptation. L.A. had thrown its worst at me and I was still standing. New York seemed like a piece of cake; on paper, that was.

Finding a place to live that was not a rat's nest isn't easy, even if you have a six-figure job and perfect credit. I had a zero-figure job, and no credit.

So what do you do when you have no prospects, no job, and no money? In New York, you either suck a lot of dick or you got back to school. I chose the second option. Surprised, huh?

I enrolled at Columbia University to get my Master's degree. In retrospect, I shouldn't have made it past first screening. For a school with over half its enrollment being of colour, white anglo-saxons were a minority. Maybe that's how I made it? Thanks to financial aid, I was able to work part-time while I completed the two-year accelerated study.

I graduated in June of 1999. By the time the ink was dry on my sheepskin, I had a pretty strong feeling that despite my studies at Harvard and now Columbia, I wasn't going to be the CEO of anything soon. Yes, the itch was back.

This time, I was in better shape. Despite having the total of one match under my belt, and that being over two years earlier, and my only contact with the business having long since retired to the Cayman Islands, at least I had some money.

Cutting as many corners as I could, add that to working for the man on weekends, gave me about five g's to my name. Assuming I didn't snap my other forearm, I'd run out of money in six months... if you didn't count having to pay back almost sixty k in student loans.

What'd I have to lose? I found a small (micro, actually) apartment in the middle of nowhere, N.Y. and began to look into getting back into the business. What I thought was my big chance came via a verbal contract with the owner of a small Pennsylvania-based promotion in late 2000. I hadn't even received my copy of the formal deal we signed when I turn on the TV one Monday night and see my boss doing commentary with Jim Ross on RAW.

(Pauses to let the chants of "You Fucked Up!" die down.)

But at least I wasn't the only guy who suddenly found himself out of work.

...

This is where things got really bad. My job barely covered my rent. I had student loans to pay, and in anticipation of making "extreme" amounts of money, I maxed out a twenty thousand dollar gold card on new wrestling attire. There were weeks when the only things in my fridge were cobwebs.

It's now December 23rd, 2001. I'm at the end of my rope, which also happens to be hanging from the ceiling fan. My mom called yesterday with an invitation to come home for the holidays, but I had to decline. I didn't have enough cash to cover the gas for the trip home, so I told her work was keeping me busy. No idea if she believed me, but I'm sure my old man said a few things in her ear after I hung up. Another reason I didn't want to go home, but I didn't feel right about telling her that I couldn't stand the man she twice married.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yeah... depressed. The rope is swaying with the fan and I'm beginning to welcome the feeling of it around my throat. Then my phone rings. It shows unknown number. Another thing I am avoiding is answering my cell if I don't know who it is. That way, there is less chance of having to deal with a bill collector. I'm still not sure why I answered it this time, but I did. It was Tommy Dreamer.

"Hey Baker, what's happenin'?"

"A lot of Jack." I stated. I hate people who sugar-coat things.

"Thought so. Look, we know things have been shit for a lot of guys since Paulie declared bankruptcy."

"Who is this 'we'? From what I've seen, you're doing all right."

"Made a few bucks off the Invasion, but that's it. I'm not calling to rub your face in it, I'm calling to invite you to Xmas dinner."

"Dude, I just turned down dinner with my mom. Why would I have dinner with you?"

"Just an offer. Rob, Sabu, 'n me rented out the Manhattan Center for a night. We thought it'd be nice to keep in touch with everyone. Tomorrow night, six p.m."

"I'll think about it."

"Cool, we'll see you there."

"But I... " was now talking to dead air. "Damn you. Can't take no for an answer."

I really don't know why I ended up going. It probably had something to do with knowing I was actually going to be fed. I ended up at a table with Mikey Whipwreck, Steve Corino, and CW Anderson. All of them seemed to be in better shape than I was, at least financially. Flipping between abject depression and overt anger, I tried to focus on enjoying the turkey. I guess I'm not that good at hiding my emotions, or at that point in my life I wasn't, because no sooner does the beer start flowing than Mikey decides that I need to take a walk with him.

Of the seven matches I had in ECW before it folded, four involved Mikey; either as an opponent or as a tag partner. I guess in his book that made us friends or some shit.

"How bad is it? Really."

Delving in to my financial situation? What a way to start a conversation!

"I'm sixty-k in debt from student loans, what you could call a job barely covers my rent, my fridge is gathering dust... other than that, peachy!"

Mikey's expression was one of surprise.

"I also maxed on my Visa. Did I mention that?"

"Nope." Mikey whistled softly. "I thought I was in tight."

"WCW stiff you as badly?"

"Point taken." Mikey answered "Y'know I could help you out."

I chuckled. "Who do I have to kill?"

"At least you haven't lost your sense of humour." Mikey smiled, then quickly got all serious. "I'm not kidding. I know a guy who is starting a company in town. He needs people. You interested?"

"I might be."

"Give me your cell number and I'll have him give you a call."

What did I have to lose? I scribbled the number on the back of an old receipt and passed it over. Mikey stuck the card in his wallet. Nothing more was said between us for the duration of the party. I was in a better mood, however. In fact, my mood seemed to improve in direct correlation to the amount of alcohol coursing through my system. I vaguely remeber RVD in his boxers doing the Macarena with a light shade on his head. Even less do I know how I got home and until a month later, what Mikey and I talked about.

Near the end of January of 2002, I get the call that would change my life, although I didn't know it then. Like I've said before, I usually don't answer the phone unless I know who it is on the other end. Yet again, I did.

"Is this Andrew Baker?" The voice had such a thick New York accent, it took a couple of seconds for my brain to decipher it.

"Yes, it is."

"I'm John Curse."

The name meant nothing to me. I stalled until the silence started to get awkward.

"Sorry, but have we met?"

"Probably not, unless you've driven through lovely downtown Hicksville recently. I'm starting my own promotion and Mikey Whipwreck said you were looking for a new challenge."

I was tempted to say that at that precise moment, anything more stimulating that staring at my ceiling would be welcome, but I was unsure if he would get my very dry sense of humour.

"I most certainly am." I replied

"Excellent. What's like to do is have you come down to the office in the next day or two and we can discuss this a little more in-depth. I have a few questions for you and I'm sure you have a few for me."

As long as his cheques didn't bounce, I'd be willing at that point to wrestle naked if he asked me. I mentally put that on my list of things not to say at our first meeting.

"Just tell me where and when."

I don't remember a lot of specifics from that meeting, but it was there that the first seeds of what would become "The Future" were sown. Mind you, this was many years before "The Future" would be known to anybody outside the New York area. I didn't think anyone would hear of "The Future", given what I thought was the mindset of the WWF (at the time) creative. But that's another story for another chapter.

I debuted on opening night in 2002 in a tournament to crown the first NYWC champion. My character at the time played off the stereotypical brash New Yorker. As "Black Jack" Baker, I was a tough guy from the same part of Brooklyn Taz hails from. Based on my performance that first night, my toughness extended to last nine minutes in the first round before being piledriven back into obscurity. By that I don't mean I disappeared, but I was a long time before I got any gold. (About nine years, give or take.)

When you heard people in the know talking about going "to New York" in the late 90's, early 00's, they probably did not mean the company that employed me. There were a lot of guys that came through that went on to make it big. I won't mention any names at the risk of embarrassing them. Like my early dealing with Vince, ruining reputations will come along at a later time.

With Heyman and Bischoff out of business completely by this point, and "The Attitude Era" still going strong, we thought of ourselves as the alternative to that. We presented ourselves as a throwback to the old-school, to a point. We still had out share of colourful characters, but every man on our roster was technically sound to a degree. I included myself in that statement, even though I was still greener than an Irishman's liver.

I was a mainstay for the rest of '02 and a good chunk of '03. I was by no means able to make a living from just wrestling, but I had roof over head, food in fridge, and clothes on back.

In September of 2003, I left NYWC. We parted amicably, even though it was for totally unamiable reasons. As I have said once before, I was raised in Canada. Even though I hold (or held) dual citizenship, I don't consider myself an American.

Early in the month, we had gather for a staff meeting, where Curse tells us that on we will be putting on a benefit show on the 11th to make the two-year anniversary of the "terror" attacks. I still don't believe it was legit, and since this is my book, I am going to say that.

September 11th fell on a Thursday. A Thursday that I had already made plans for. These plans did not involve wrestling, and they sure as hell did no involve wrestling for free. Had I been told a month or two in advance instead of the Friday prior, I might have been a little more receptive to the idea.

My promoter was even less receptive to the idea of me not appearing. Only later did I find out that it had nothing to do with my political views. Up to that point, I had been a heel and enjoying it thoroughly. As I now understand it, the way it was going to be booked was I would be making a face turn in response to the current heel champ and be taking the title "back home" to New York. Oh well, shit happens.

I worked my last match on the ninth in a hastily put together "Loser-leaves-town" match. I lost in less than two minutes to the same guy I would've won the title from two days later. I repeat, shit happens.

Most of the guys were on my side, despite 99 percent of them doing the free show. Mikey? He seemed to take it as a personal slap in the face. The slap in the face actually came several hours later when he showed up plastered, wanting to get into it. That is why I still believe you shouldn't get too friendly with people you work with. It just comes back to kick you in the balls and then laugh while you're rolling on the floor in agony. (That is how Mikey ended up.)

Back to square one, you might thing? Not really. I had work outside the ring, my debt load was 1/3 of what it was two years earlier, and my stress level was one-fifth.

Two days later, I booked a cheap flight back home. By that, I mean back to Canada to take care of some unfinished business. Back to my family. The turbulence on the flight was nothing compared to what awaited me when I landed.

...


End file.
